
Class J^S-3 $JS 

Book !L-&4^.S 7 

Copyright K! (llj 



COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT. 



SONGS OF 
THE STEEL AGE 



BY 



WILLIAM HURD HILLYER 




BOSTON 
RICHARD G. BADGER 

SIjf (Sorhain tyttm 
1907 



Copyright 1907 by William Hurd Hilly er 



All Rights Reserved 



Two Ooaies Received 

JUN 24 » 30/ I 

^CoDyngtit Entry 
dUss £L aXc, No, 

COPY B. I 






T7i* author begs to thank Messrs. Harper & 
Brothers, Frank A. Munsey Company, The Century 
Company, The Criterion Company, Frank Leslie's 
Publishing House, and S. H. Moore £if Company, 
of New York; also Messrs. J. B. Lippincott Com- 
pany, of Philadelphia, and Perry Mason Company, 
of Boston: these houses having given permission for 
the reprinting herein of certain of his poems on which 
they own the copyright. 



The Gorham Press, Boston. 



CONTENTS 



SONGS OF THE STEEL AGE 



Five Travellers 

The House of the Looms 

The Night Express 

(St. Nicholas Magazine.) 
The Song of the Current 
The Lineman . . 

(Lippincott's Magazine, January, 1903.) 
The Wind in the Wires 
Lighthouse and Bell Buoy 
Song of the Press . 
The Giant's Highway 
The Midnight Mail 

(Lippincott's Magazine , September, 1 902.) 
The Way Freight . 

(Munsey's Magazine.) 
The Tunnel 

(Lippincott's Magazine, June, 1 902.) 
Song of the Engineer 

(Youth's Companion.) 
The Terminus 

(Lippincott's Magazine, April, 1902.) 
The Ruined Engine 
This is Caesar 

(Atlanta Journal.) 
The Vanishing Woodland 
The Abandoned Farm 
The Revenge of the Forest 
Approaching the Sea on the Virginia Coast 



9 
14 
*5 

16 
19 

20 
21 
22 

25 
26 

27 

27 
28 

29 

29 
30 

32 

34 
36 
38 



The Passing of the Nineteenth Century 39 

(Atlanta Daily Newt, December 31, 1900.) 
The Afterman .... 40 

ROSES OF IRAN 

The Kinvad Bridge .... 4c 

(Harper's Magazine, January, 1902.) 
A Song of the Persian Poet ... 45 

FLEURS DE LYS 

The Ballad of Charles Martel ... 49 

(St. Nicholas Magazine.) 

The Last Stand at Hastings o 

The Chevalier ..... c6 

Chateau Gaillard ..... 60 

GOLDEN ARROWS 



65 



La Desiree ..... 

(Ladies' World.) 
Old-Fashioned Flowers ... .6c 

Wind of the South ... 6- 

(Lippincott's Magazine.) 
Deep Honest Gray Her Eyes ... 68 

The End of the World ... g 



CANELF 

The Castle of Canelf . -j l 

The Wrestling of Thor ... 73 



A Legend of Eric the Red ... 76 

The Sanctus Bell 77 

The Last of the Giants .... 80 

Gipsies ...... 03 

(The Sunny South.) 

The Angel with the Flaming Sword . 83 

Revelation ...••• 87 

(New York Observer.) 



jEOLIAN 

Meridies ...... 91 

The South Wind Cometh . . 9 1 

The Equinox ..... 92 

Nimbus 93 

(The Criterion, July, 1903.) 
Midwinter in Georgia ... .94 

The Homeless Men • • 95 



ATLANTIS 

The Round Oak 99 

The Old Picture Book .... 99 
Nevermoreland . . . . .102 

The Phantom Words .... 102 

Illusion 103 

(Munsey's Magazine, February, 1903.) 
Beach Grasses . . . . .104 

(Youth's Companion.) 
Ocean and Time ..... 104 
The Master's Face . . . .105 

(New York Observer.) 
Au Dela ...... 105 



DEDICATION OF A VOLUME OF POEMS 

As one who dreams and, dreaming, fears 
Lest of a sudden he should wake 

To face the grim slant of the years 
And once again life's burdens take, 



So momently I wonder how 

Real daytime so much heaven can hold- 
So much of joy and peace as thou 

Hast brought to me, dear heart of gold: 



Wherefore, scarce knowing if this life 
Be real or fancied that we live, 

To thee, O steadfast Love, O Wife, 
This web of dream and song I give. 



SONGS OF THE STEEL AGE 



THE FIVE TRAVELLERS 

Whether they had but wakened from a long, en- 
chanted sleep, 

Or in some favored craft had crossed the unvoy- 
ageable Deep, — 

How they did come I cannot tell; yet this I surely 
know, 

That once upon a summer's day, not many months 

ago, 

Surrounded by the roaring streets, the tumult- 
burdened air, 

Five men of ancient garb and strange appeared in 
Union Square. 

Now one was a metal-worker 

Of Ephesus, and one 
A merchant, largely trading 

Trom Tyre to Chalcedon; 
A weaver of Panormus, 
An armorer from Xanthus, — 
The fifth, a master builder 

From towered Babylon. 

By different ways they came, and each had friendly 

clasp for each; 
A broad-roofed elm they found, and sat within its 

shaded reach. 
The metal-worker spake: " O friends, wise people 

these, and bold; 
Iron they carve as wood, and brass as yielding wax 

they mould. 
All night I saw, when from the mineson yester eve 

returning, 
Their Titan-builded furnaces like tall volcanoes 

burning. 



No dingy smithies mark the spot where rings the 

ruddy steel, 
But huge halls, where, from dawn to dusk, the open 

doors reveal 
Dim giants moving, bending, back and forth, amid 

the clamor 
Of block and chain and thundering forge, and 

wheel, and viewless hammer. 
Not craftsmen they, but sorcerers, with iron slaves 

that stand 
Ready to make a million bolts or axles at command." 

"True," said the merchant, "for the lords of 
trade employ no more 

The tedious, dusty caravan and clumsy sail and oar. 

The demon-driven train speeds past along the sing- 
ing rails, 

And at the wharf great floating towns discharge 
their precious bales. 

A marble palace, royal-wide, I passed by not long 
since; 

I said, ' What king dwells yonder ? ' They replied, 
' A merchant-prince.' " 

Then spake the weaver: " Large indeed this 
people's wealth and skill. 

Their threads are spun by multitudes of whirring 
staves, that fill 

The vast halls with a surf-like roar; by magic force 
propelled, 

They spin full half a mile or more while our good 
wives of old 

Would twist a cubit: stranger still those wide, mys- 
terious rooms 

10 



Where sounds till twilight the loud brool and 

brabble of the looms. 
In long batallions ranged, and scarce by human 

touch attended, 
All day with lightning speed they weave their 

gorgeous webs and splendid; 
For 'tis some unseen god, condemned by Fate to 

toil below, 
Who sits before each loom and flings the shuttle to 

and fro." 

Then said the armorer: " O friends, brave wonders 
I have seen: 

Men use no more the spear and axe, the sword and 
rapier keen, 

Armor they cannot wear; a shield that well with- 
stands the jolt 

Of javelins makes but weak defence when falls the 
thunderbolt. 

Small use are helmets of hard bronze and plates 
and glittering greaves, 

Before the shaft that at one stroke the rocky ram- 
part cleaves. 

But I have found a curious thing: this people's 
God is Trade; 

To him are countless altars reared and bloody 
offerings made. 

Forgetful of heroic war, they make a war of peace; 

They gather with unending strife rich treasure, to 
increase 

The temple revenues of Trade; and, bent with 
jarring toil, 

Upon his thankless altar steps they cast their hard- 
won spoil." 

II 



The master builder said: " More strange, more 

marvellous than all, 
Their temples, narrow, glass-bechecked, uncouth, 

and cloudy-tall. 
Here hurrying thousands come and go each day, 

and late at night 
Loom those gigantic piles, ablaze with countless 

points of light. 
From a high roof one moonless eve I watched the 

huge town set 
With flickering jewels, far below the windy parapet. 
The gray smoke of enchantment veiled the dark 

squares, interblent 
With crimson: nothing more I saw; yet deep, 

malevolent 
I heard the tumult drifting in across the iron ledge 
As when the distant sand storm sweeps beyond the 

desert's edge. 

"I thought I stood again on old Borsippa, looking 
o'er 

The first great capital of all the world, and watched 
once more 

Above the low Chaldean plains, through the far 
night dissolving, 

Arcturus and Aldebaran in their black zones re- 
volving. " 

The metal worker said, " And yet I passed a street 

where surged 
A snarling multitude, by Fear and fleshless Famine 

urged. " 

The merchant said, " I saw the old, sad farms and 
homes acurst 

ia 



On which the vampire usurer slakes his inhuman 
thirst." 

The weaver said, " I saw the wan mill-women, — 
yes, and I 

Saw the thin shrewd-faced children where the mad- 
dening shuttles fly." 

Then spake the armorer, " I saw the crowded jails, 

the immense 
Gray castles, which in vain oppose theft, murder, 

violence. " 

' Yea," said the master builder, " I have seen, in 

byways drear, 
The dwellings of the poor up-piled to the blank 

heavens, tier on tier. 
And I have seen the sunless lair of Guilt and pale 

Mistrust, 
The warm bemirrored courts of Vice, the palaces of 

Lust. 
Let us go back, go back, to where, in endless round 

and slow, 
The shadow shapes of other days perform their 

phantom show. 
Some time, perchance, we may return, when by its 

boasted art 
The world hath found a way to cleanse its own 

unrighteous heart." 
Sadly they all agreed; and so, with travel-wearied 

feet 
They crossed the shaded square and reached the 

coastline of the street, 
Where the swift, many-voiced tide flowed past with 

sullen din. 

13 



Around them like a gulfing wave the listless crowd 
closed in. 

Now one was a metal-worker 

From Ephesus, and one 
A merchant, largely trading 

From Tyre to Chalcedon; 
A weaver of Panormus, 
An armorer from Xanthus, — 
The fifth, a master builder 

From towered Babylon. 

THE HOUSE OF THE LOOMS 

Did you ask for the House of the Looms ? 'Tis a 
mile to the north, 
It is hard by the place where the lake pours over 
the falls. 
You may know it from far by its chimney voiding 
forth 
Huge monsters of smoke, and its thousand- 
windowed walls. 

It is square towered, angular, vast, severe; from 
within 
All day and into the night may he heard the 
sonorous 
Hum of the spindles, mixed with a rhythmic din 
As the chattering looms crash out their insistent 
chorus. 

O the dexterous looms! O the tireless, joyless 
looms! 
They labor wherever the thin white weft is 
drawn, — 

H 



Where the coal trains rumble and creak on the 
spur, and booms 
The punctual, pitiless factory whistle at dawn: 

Where the dingy dwellings are all of the same 
design, 
And a strong gate, barred and legended, blocks 
us ahead, — 
Where, dim through the morning dusk, in a voice- 
less line, 
The women and children go down to do battle 
for bread. 

THE NIGHT EXPRESS 

There's a light at last in the sable mist, and it 

hangs like a rising star 
On the border line 'twixt earth and sky, where the 

rails run straight and far: 
And deeply sounds from hill to hill, in mighty 

monotone, 
A distant voice — a hoarse, wild note with savage 

warning blown, 
'Tis the night express, and well 'tis named, for 

behold ! from out of the nieht 
It comes and darkly adown the rails it looms to the 

startled sight — 
Larger, nearer, nearer yet — till at last there's a 

clang and a roar, 
A wave of heat, and a gleam of red from a closing 

furnace door; 
Then the crash and shriek of the rushing train — 

and our hearts beat fast and high 
When sudden and swift through the shadowy mist 

the night express goes by! 

*5 



SONG OF THE CURRENT 

Firstborn daughters of Chaos and Night were the 

Clouds, dim rolling 
Under the dubious firmament, where with invisible 

pinion 
Wheeled the disorderly winds; then arose the 

tempest-controlling 
Spirit Electron — versatile, vast, and of boundless 

dominion. 

'Round the mysterious core of the earth, with its 

fires volcanic, 
Viewless tides are awhirl, and unknown pulses 

are thrilling — 
Vibrant with plentiful power, and urged by the 

forces tyrannic 
Holding the reins of the stars, and the visible uni- 
verse filling. 
Long had this power gone forth: exhaustless, linked 

with the solar 
Central reserves, cannonading athwart the gray 

whirlwind's commotion; 
Silently ebbing and flowing in radiant ring circum- 

polar, — 
Flaming at night from the masts and spars of ships 

in midocean, — 

Ere yet man had discovered its hidden and mystical 

sources, 
Caught it with dexterous webs or ensnared it 

in brazen coils; 
Ere he had tried it and trained it and made its 

intractable forces 

16 



Grind at his mill, bear his burdens, and lighten hi 
multiform toils. 

Now, from the countless wires that span the low 

plains and the highlands, — 
From the shrill motors, and singing arcs along 

avenues splendid, — 
Mixed with the murmur the cables bring in from 

the farthermost islands, 
Rises the song of the Current, of manifold voices 

blended: 

I am he whom Egypt dreamed of, ever striving to 

unfold 
Mysteries of Nile and Nature, laboring with riddles 

old- 
He whom Pharaoh's magicians tempted with their 

rods of gold. 

Guessed at by the Hindoo sages, watching for 

strange avatars; 
Sought by purple-robed Chaldeans under the low, 

liquid stars; 
Praised by Moslem storytellers in the Saracen 

bazaars, — 

Only yesterday men found me, touched my gar- 
ment's outer hem; 

And I turned and from my girdle plucked a single 
sun-bright gem, — 

As I passed I turned and, smiling, flung this talis- 
man to them. 

So they talk of ohms and voltage, and they prate of 
what they owe me; 

17 



Learned charlatans in lectures seek to analyze and 

show me: 
I have wrought them a few wonders, and they fancy 

that they know me. 

Ye who dwell on wisdom's border — foreigners 

at Truth's frontier, 
Now retreating, now advancing half an ell or so a 

year- 
Boast not, lest perchance some burgher from the 

capital should hear! 

Know ye how the simplest blossom perfume from 

the dust distils ? 
How the germinal impulsion through the planted 

furrow thrills ? 
Know ye aught of that Far Country over the sad 

twilight hills ? 

Ere you brag of peace and plenty, and your for- 
tunate bright age 

Watch the sallow children working through the 
night at pauper's wage. 

See the vengeful under-people, glaring from their 
hopeless cage. 

Much you know of wheel and hammer: one thing 

most of all you need — 
Love that seeks and finds and blesses, tears that 

fall and hearts that bleed; 
Lest you bind the monster Famine but to nurse the 

Titan Greed. 

Better, yes, the times are better than in those dark 
days of blood 

18 



When behind their fended doorways feudal knight 

and bishop stood. 
Those were times of storm and slaughter; these are 

better, but not good. 



Not yet! But the world-rim brightens, and the 

coming years shall see 
Labor with its own full fruitage, largess without 

beggary; 
And the prison-bolts are moving, for 'tis I who 

holds the key. 
Mine the planting and the reaping, mine the hard 

toil of the field : 
Yours to rightfully apportion and to measure out 

the yield, — 
Yours the liberty of kindness, yours the perfect life 

revealed. 



THE LINEMAN 

Thin, scattered ranks of snow 
Stampede along the street; 

And sagging wires betray the slow 
Chill mischief of the sleet. 



In homely garb of toil, 

With tools of quaint device, 

The lineman comes, his shouldered coil 
Gray with a rime of ice. 



19 



Upraised adventurer, 

He climbs enchanted towers, 
And mends the magic threads that stir 

The world's remotest powers. 

From heights wind-desolate 
His torch flames cheerless blue. 

(Red, red the hearth where loved ones wait 
The winter twilight through.) 

Lineman, what hindereth 

That message I would hear ? 

Canst mend the web 'twixt Life and Death ? 
Canst gain responses clear ? 

I call, but still behold 

No spark of answering fire. 
O for some lineman true and bold 

To mend that broken wire! 

THE WIND IN THE WIRES 

Tall sentinels in file across 

Fields, valleys, prairie lands. 
Where some great chief has posted them 

To pass his large commands. 

Gaunt giants they, their names unknown. 

Their constant strength unsung; 
With rigid arms outstretched, whereon 

The copper threads are strung. 

Across the level that moveless row 
Leads out to the sunset fires. 

20 



No sound abides on the plain, save the 'ow 
Sad hum of the wind in the wires. 

Now back and forth (while iEolus 

His measured changes rings) 
Swift countless words go pulsing past 

Along those vibrant strings: 

Grave messages of love and hate; 

Vast news from near and far 
Of steam and sail, of life and death, 

Of storm and flood and war. 

While we have listened, fortune, fame, 

Swift back and forth hath sped, 
And men have won and men have lost 

Along each slender thread. 

Tet upon them alights the brown, wayfaring bird 
When of long winter winging she tires. 

O'er the fenceless plain and not a sound is heard 
Save the hum of the wind in the wires. 



LIGHTHOUSE AND BELL-BUOY 

Before, the solid sea wall, and the wide 
Blue background for a single sun-gilt sail: 

Behind, the square gray lighthouse, on whose side 
The day-glow lingers pale. 

Huge Titan of the bronzed coast, he stands 

Summer and stormy winter; through the years, 

21 



Forever looking towards the orient lands 
The Bell-buoy still he hears. 

The waves have diadems of gold; the sun 

Low in the cloudless west hangs round and dim. 

It sinks; and for a moment rests upon 
The sharp horizon-rim. 

Soon at the world's edge fades the last red spark — 
Clear-tolling bell, and salt surge, crashing high 

And lo! the great lamp, foeman to the dark, 
Flames out against the sky. 

Watch Hill, R. I., August 10, 1901. 



THE SONG OF THE PRESS 

When old Gutenburg, inventor of the printing 

press, and mentor 
Of the clumsy-fingered typos in a sleepy German 

town 
Used to spread the sheets of vellum on the form and 

plainly tell 'em 
That the art was then perfected, as he pressed the 

platen down — 
He had not the faintest notion of the rhythmical 

commotion, 
Of the brabble and the clamor and the unremitting 

roar 
Of the mighty triple decker, while the steel rods 

flicker 
And the papers ready folded fall in thousands to the 

floor. 

22 



" They can beat me like the nation when the job's for 

recreation — 
Say a fancy Christmas cover full of foolish filigree, — 
But I tell you what, my honey, if you want to make 

some money 
On a run of half a million, then just pass it up to me. 
You can watch the sheets a-snowing through my 

folder when I'm going, 
And I print them by the thousand while the happy 

moments fat; 
I can cut a pretty caper with a half a mile of paper 
While the little poky fogies are a-hauling off to hit!''' 

As the publication hour draweth nigh, a subtle 

power 
Seems to thrill through every sinew, and he hungers 

for the fight. 
And he hears the forms descending and with 

strident voices blending 
As the smell of molten metal rises hotly through 

the night. 
Now the last form, it is ready! and his giant 

frame is steady, 
And for one decisive moment he awaits the signal- 
word. 
" All in!" Faster, faster, faster, with a tumult that 

grows vaster 
Moves the great press. On the sidewalk shrill the 

newsboy's cry is heard. 

Like the deafening surge of ocean swells the rhyth" 
mical commotion 

And the brabble and the clamor and the unremit- 
ting roar 

Of the mighty triple decker, while the steel rods 
flicker 

2 3 



And the papers, ready folded, fall in thousands to 
the floor. 

" Here I stand, the bounteous giver of the latest 

word, forever 
Am I listening for the whisper of the wire; near 

and far, 
Good and bad the news — no matter — in an instant 

I will scatter 
A most marvellous translation through the crowded 

streets afar. 
Banks may fail and bonds may falter, and on an- 
cient hearth and altar 
Strange new fires may burn unbidden, — creeds may 

crumble, swords may rust, 
All the rack and change of ages doth but number 

me fresh pages 
While the slow red tide of freedom humbleth 

scepters to the dust. 
I alone am tireless, deathless; day by day the 

starved crowd, breathless, 
Waits for me to feed and fill them, for new false- 
hoods ravenous — 
Hence with truth perforce I mingle harmless 

fictions and the jingle 
That the multitude call poems, — jest and fable 

dolorous; — 
Banal narrative and hollow cant of Pharisees they 

swallow 
Mixed with modicum of knowledge, here and there 

a saving grain; — 
Here and there a crystal holy; and Truth's essences 

are slowly 
Conquering the world's black blindness, driving 

out the old blunt pain." 

24 



THE GIANTS' HIGHWAY 

Adown the hollow valley, 

And over the sheer ravine, 
Along bleak salty barrens 

And blissful miles of green, — ■ 
Under the boreal starlight, 

And under tropic suns, 
From ocean far to ocean 

The Giants' Highway runs. 

It spans the widest river; 

It cleaves the jagged crown 
Of the steep range: it flashes 

Through the fierce, cloudy town; — 
Through maize and bearded barley, 

Past pines and poplars tall. 
Its gleaming curve swings broadly 

Beyond my garden wall. 

The fast Freight, plunging southward 

Beneath the faded moon; 
The Vestibuled at sunrise, 

The long Express at noon; 
The Limited at twilight, 

And the hoarse Northbound Mail: 
I hear their huge wild voices — 

The giants of the rail, — 

Calling and ever calling 

In tones that urge and thrill, 
And I am fain to follow 

Beyond the changeless hill; 
For love or strife or sorrow, 

For large or fruitless deeds, 
I would that I knew whither 

The Giants' Highway leads. 

25 



THE MIDNIGHT MAIL 

Resonant, full and deep 

Is the voice of the midnight mail: 
It rolls through the shadowy realms of sleep 

When the high moon gleams on the rail. 
It startles the drowsing oak, 

And the clustered pines reply, 
And the gray batallions of goblin smoke 

Hang moveless under the sky. 



But oh, not the lordly notes 

That waken the dreaming hill, 
Nor the cloud-white plume that backward floats. 

Nor the clamor that warns, " I kill!" — 
Not the drifting smoke above, 

Nor the transient furnace glare, 
But the freightage of sorrow and joy and love 

Which the Midnight Mail doth bear! 



The great, swift wheels, the long 

Yellow chain of squares agleam — 
It is not for these that the poet's song 

Is blent with the roar of steam. 
Not the triumph of splendid arts. 

Nor the prince of the passionless rail, 
But the anxious eyes and the beating hearts 

That wait for the Midnight Mail! 



26 



THE WAY FREIGHT 

Red semaphores along the line displayed, 

And broad black smoke against the sunset bars; 

The Way Freight, noisy caravan of trade, 
Impeded by a multitude of cars, 

Comes toiling up the difficult long grade. 

Engines and men — not all of us may lead 
The Fast Mail or the meteor Express. 

The plodding Mogul fills an urgent need 
Where the swift Flyer would be powerless. 

Ofttimes the greater strength hath lesser speed. 

THE TUNNEL 

Gray, rock-strewn plains, walled in with hueless 
hills: 

A blurred, tumultuous canyon; then the black 
Jaws of the tunnel — instant night that chills 

Through the closed windows. Down the ob- 
scure track 
Rushes the train with blind, monotonous 

Clamor, the steam's huge intermittent roar 
Grows fiercer. Has this darkness dolorous 

No end ? — and shall we see the sky no more ? 

But look! A sudden smoky dawn — a burst 

Of sunshine, and the far, sweet blue! Behold 
Another country, fairer than the first: 

Meadows and misty woods and harvest-gold; 
And a slow river, at whose flowered verge 

The wet grass flourishes and calm trees bend. 
And so, perhaps, we may at last emerge 

From that dread tunnel whither all roads tend. 

27 



THE SONG OF THE ENGINEER 

You may lounge on your velveted cushions and 

mark each mile with a thoughtless dream — 

You may say there is nothing of wierd romance in 

the practical prose of steam: 
But you never have sat in the dust and smoke, and 

seen that the track was clear, 
Nor held the reins of the steed that leaves the wind 

in its wild career. 
No soulless, dull machine I drive, for I feel her 

passionate breath 
When I ride her over the endless rails that run by the 
brink of death! 
My fireman, lit by the flame's red glare, 
Myself, and our engine — o'er valley and height 
We three are as one, and together we share 
The marvellous triumph and glory of flight! 

My will is hers, and her strength is mine: past the 

sandhills gray and low, 
Through the shimmering cornfields' long green line 

and the sounding moods we go! 
There is naught on the bridge that checks her speed, 

and naught in the tunnel she fears; 
For my slightest touch on the throttle she feels, and 

my softest whisper she hears. 
Only a touch and a whispered word, on the trestle 

narrow and high; 
When she trembles and shrinks on the dangerous 
curve, or a freight train thunders by. 
Loud is the shriek of the startled air — 
Long is the stretch of the roadbed white: 
We three are as one; and together we share 
The marvellous triumph and glory of flight! 

28 



THE TERMINUS 

The wide town swings to view; the train speeds past 
Long roaring freights. Mysterious voices blend 
With the shrill steam: then underneath the vast 
Vault of the terminus, we find at last 
Our journey's end. 

Beyond the doors, a wintry wilderness, 

The formidable streets lie strange and far. 
But see, familiar faces wait to bless 
Our coming. How informed with joyfulness 
Their greetings are! 

I wonder if, to when into the world's great 
Sad terminus, I come unasked, unknown, 
Will welcoming dear faces for me wait, 
Or must I through the hollow-clanging gate 
Pass out alone ? 



THE RUINED ENGINE 

Behind the village, on the level meadow, 

Prone to the boundless sweep of changing skies — 

Through rain and snow, gay sun and wintry shadow 
A fallen and forgotten giant lies. 

Long since fallen and dead; 

But the shifting seasons pass : 
And his iron bones with rust are red, 
And the dust of decay around him spread 

Is food for the thrifty grass. 

29 



Through that great chest, where once, with mighty 
breathing. 

Roared the red-passionate flame in lusty song, — 
Amid those arteries, where, pulsing, seething, 

Surged the swift steam to sinews large and strong, 

The low- voiced Autumn breeze flutes faint and 
hollow. 

Up to the headlight goes a blossoming vine; 
Whither the tawny bee is blithe to follow, 

Drinking from fragile cups their costly wine. 

Yon white-haired man — who is he ? 

Why walks he out on the grass ? 
Hush! This was his engine once. But we 
Want neither now; for the world swings free, 

And the cruel seasons pass. 

"THIS IS CESAR" 

When with panoply and triumph, came the legions 

from the fray, 
And the gorgeous Roman eagles flashed along the 

Appian Way, 
High above them, robed in purple and with victor's 

laurel crowned, 
Rode the emperor, while his minions bade the 

brazen trumpet sound. 
Sometimes it was fierce Tiberias, cruel, merciless, 

unjust; 
Sometimes it was bronze-beard Nero, mad with 

monstrous crime and lust; 
Yet to all alike the greeting from the servile Roman 

crowd, 
" Live the emperor! Long live Caesar!" rose in 

thunders clear and loud. 

30 



And his reign has never ended — he is tyrant, as of 

old, 
Leading still the captive millions at his chariot 

wheels of gold, 
" Caesar " was the name they gave him when he 

graced the conqueror's car — 
With the Germans he is " Kaiser/' and the Russians 

call him " Czar. " 

Once our fathers fought for freedom, and on many 

a stubborn field 
Gained the right of independence with their life- 
blood signed and sealed — 
At the ancient thrones of Europe hurled the gauntlet 

of the free, 
And the despot's paid retainers drove they back 

across the sea. 
Through the decades that have followed it has been 

our boast and pride 
That no hated royal standard blazes where our 

fathers died! 
But that, in our blest republic, one and all may 

freely share 
Right of property and conscience, right of trial full 

and fair. 
Yet by crafty bribes the tyrant gained our closely 

guarded gates; 
Last night stealthily he entered — patiently he works 

and waits. 
Ye will have him — ye who glory in our conquered 

lands afar — 
Ye who with the homes of thousands feed the flames 

of useless war. 
Madman of Ahenobarbus, making vice and crime 

an art — 

31 



Feeble Claudius, weak Domitian — demon's soul 
and coward's heart — 

This is Caesar: he is despot where the fires of con- 
quest burn; 

We shall have him, fellow patriots, when the con- 
querors return. 

Out with those that talk of empire, bidding high for 

cheap renown! 
What is empire but the purple ? What is conquest 

but a crown ? 
This is Caesar — he is waiting, waxing stronger day 

by day; 
Let us drive the lurking tyrant from our borders 

while we may! 



THE VANISHING WOODLAND 

I 

Insolent stranger, disturbing the ancient calm of the 
forest, — 

Slayer of old pines, — harsh-voiced prophet of civi- 
lization — 

Cease, thou savage Car, thy piercing damnable 
discord; 

Hearken to one who loveth alike the lane of the 
woodland 

And the long, smoke-veiled street, with its complex 
clangor and tumult. 

Excellent manifold blessings do follow the far re- 
sounding 

Axe of the pioneer, and the shrieking saw, and the 
railway. 



32 



Manifold excellent blessings — wide roads, populous 

cities, 
Thunder of splendid trains, and whir of a million 

spindles, 
Passes the quiet rule of the age dieties, holding 
Festivals under the trees, and the piping birds in the 

branches. 
Comes, with its new-found magic, the reign of the 

wheel and the hammer — 
Cabled bridges, and strange lights, lit by the gnomes 

of the current; 
After the golden age swift follows the age of iron. 



II 



Towns there must be, and cities, and huge mills 

noisily turning — 
Mad, congested streets and sunless tenements — 

byways, 
Boulevards, lordly walls with starving souls behind 

them: 
Wherefore the tyrant Commerce exacts as an annual 

tribute 
Numberless massive trees from the unresisting 

forest. 

Ill 

Is it the drifting smoke from a thousand factory 
chimneys ? 

Somehow over the town hangs a somber mist, and a 
longing 

Large and unknowable: not as the sweet half- 
heavenly sadness 

33 



Here in the shade of these oaks and minstrel pines; 

but a doleful 
Atmosphere, with some pure, vital element lacking. 

IV 

Cease for a while thy turbulent din, thou greedy 

destroyer; 
Thinkest that man can arise and possess the whole 

face of the planet 
After his friends, the trees, are slain, and their 

former dominions 
Barren and gray, obscured by the noxious fumes 

of the furnace ? 
Leave us a few dim groves, to refresh the Wind as 

he journeys, 
Weary of crowded lanes and burdened with smoke, 

to remind us 
How betwixt man and tree is an ancient, wonderful 

kinship; 
How, since the daybreak of time, the Almighty has 

given His larger 
Messages only to those who sought the far dusk of 

the woodland — 
Those who fasted and prayed in the gloom of the 

whispering branches. 

THE ABANDONED FARM 

Sunset slow-deepening to dusk, and chill 
October dampness on the twilight road: 

Familiar lanes, and old trees bare and still; 

The quiet well, whence unbought blessings 
flowed — 

The vacant, voiceless farmhouse on the hill. 

34 



The orchard, where in former times each bough 
Flamed red with fruitage, stands forlorn and 
waste. 
The rose-lit garden is a desert now. 

Beyond, by crumbling stone walls veined and 
traced, 
Are gray fields, long unfurrowed by the plough. 

From out yon gable window, years ago, 

One watched the distant-wheeling planets rise; 

And suddenly his young heart felt the glow 
Of limitless unrest: before his eyes 

Passed, in wild dreams, the great world's magic 
show. 

He turned his face to the huge misty town. 

The kindly fields thenceforth knew him no more. 
So went three sons, straight-limbed and ruddy 
brown, 

To mix with savage Trade's unceasing roar: 
Then the two desolate white heads went down. 

Thou City, stark devourer of the spoils 

Of wide lands and ancestral homes — thou vast 

Million-eyed monster, grasping countless coils 
Of steel — strange and how strange that men 
should cast 

Themselves into thy perilous dim toils! 

Some day the enchantment of the town will end. 

Man will awake from his long dream, and learn 
The peace that none but the kind leaves can lend. 

Back to the steadfast country will he turn, 
As to some loyal, oft-rejected friend. 

35 



Meanwhile the fields lie waste, with none to till. 

The barn is empty, the broad meadow-lands 
Merge in one sedgy wilderness, and still, 

Half ruinous, mutely reproachful, stands 
The silent-grieving farmhouse on the hill. 



THE REVENGE OF THE FOREST 

Ere ever the sound of the sinister axe rang out where 

the wild birds dwell 
Or ever the rodman's wand adverse had broken the 

ancient spell, 
The old gods ruled in the plotless woods, and the 

song of each bearded pine 
Was blent with the plash of a fountain that flowed 

from an immemorial shrine. 

They were splendid days, those ended days, when 

the vast wind wheeled and whirled 
To the violet verge where the cloudy surge broke 

white at the edge of the world; 
And the storm flames flickered to east and north, 

and the host of the rain marched by: 
And anon the red disk of the sun looked forth from 

the land of the western sky. 

Now what do you hear them saying; — 

The oaks and the poplars tall ? 
Brother of leaves, when the twilight grieves 

What say they all ? 
W hat whisper they when the dusk hangs gray 

And the moonmotes fall ? 

36 



They speak of the restless vandal tribes that harried 

the silent grove, 
Of the turbulent timber chiefs that hard for the 

splendid pillage strove; 
Of trees by the hundred million slain, through a 

cycle of threescore years; 
And of warnings sounded forth in vain by a few 

unlauded seers. 

But most of all do they moan and call when the 
midmost dark sweeps low, 

And noiselessly in the gnarled gloom the tree- 
wraiths come and go; 

They call and moan, with a pious fear of a deity 
shadow-shrined, 

And at length they tell of the vengeance drear that 
the wood-gods wrought mankind. 

Now what do you hear them saying, — 

The oaks and the poplars tall ? 
Brother of pines, when the blurred moon shines, 

What say they all ? 
When the thin mist rolls 'mid the somber boles 

And the stark owls call ? 

They tell how the legioned clouds came out from 

the camps of the storied hills, 
And sought the fair populous plain with its fields, 

its towns and dissonant mills, 
Then the flood dropped down, gray sheet on sheet 

from the melting firmament, 
And river and sky in mid heaven high were as one 

dread chaos blent; 

37 



And the long steel bridges writhed with pain and 

at length with a shriek went down 
And the people woke and cried in vain, from the 

roofs of the fated town. 
But beyond the pale of the desolate vale the world 

no message heard, 
And the throbbing fires on the broken wires died 

out with a half-formed word. 

Now ever we hear them sighing, — 

The oaks and the poplars tall; 
Brother of leaves, when the mad wind grieves. 

What say they all ? 
On whom and where do the high gods swear 

Must the next curse fall ? 

APPROACHING THE SEA ON THE 
VIRGINIA COAST 

Labors the dusty train all day through dry, 

Deserted, smoke -enshrouded fields. How long 
Till we shall hear again the welcoming song 

Of the wide surf, and feel its spray ? A cry 

Comes from our engine, as he plunges swift past 
high 
And isolated pines — a sober throng — 
Old Neptune's melancholy sentries, 'twixt whose 
strong, 

Uncurving limbs, the traveler's eager eye 

Soon fancies, as they dizzily swing past, 

That it finds grateful glimpses here and there 

Of distant emerald. Then comes a vast 
And treeless lowland, reeking with the rare, 

Faint breath of salty marshes; and at last 
The first delicious burst of ocean air! 

38 



THE PASSING OF THE NINETEENTH 
CENTURY 

December 31, 1900 

Misty and sad the stars, and the wind a requiem 

sigheth : 
To-night is the last of the year, and to-night the 

Century dieth. 
Century greatest of all — magician and ruler 

sublime — 
Grandest of all that have passed along the Appian 

Way of Time; 
Vast was his triumph, and splendid with silver and 

gold and steel; 
Proudly he rode, with the Thunderbolt chained to 

his chariot wheel. 
Dark and deserted the streets; but across in the 

neighboring square 
The windows are blazing with light where mingle 

the brave and the fair. 
They are dancing the old year out; there is music 

and laughter within — 
Cadence of mel'sonant flute and lilt of thewild violin. 

But listen! the dolorous bell! At last it is striking 

the hour: 
Vibrant and full and clear it sounds from the gray 

church tower. 
And the song of the viol and flute dies out with a 

sigh in the gloom, 
And solemnly stroke after stroke peals forth the 

Century's doom, 
Twelve! and the bird called Midnight, that flies 

at the edge of to-day, 

39 



Passes, formless and silent, swift on his westward 
way: 

And the East Wind, suddenly rising, blows fresh 
from Atlantic deeps, 

And over the continent wide the Twentieth Cen- 
tury sweeps! 

Many there are who tell us that man's best mo- 
ments are o'er, 
Saying, "The rose of his pride shall wither to bloom 

no more." 
Not so; for the day draws nigh, by the Hebrew seer 

foretold, 
When Peace shall interpret the Law, and love shall 

be better than gold. 
And though there be sickness and famine, and 

wars and rumors of wars, 
Yet still through the darkness the future shines 

forth in the steadfast stars. 
So hail, thou cycle of hope! — Remember, the 

world is young! 
There are victories yet unattained, there are songs 

that are still unsung! 

THE AFTERMAN 

"So men shall rise to be Aftermen." 

I 

A crumbling stone, a bit of old brass, hid 
Under the red shifting sand; 
Traces of a forgotten pyramid, 

A streak of rust, 
A ring from a dead hand; 

A heap of melancholy dust: 

40 






Here dwelt an ancient colony of Men. 
Here lived they, fought and toiled and loved, and 
then 
Slept, as all living must. 

II 

I wonder ... if he who wore 
This ring — this curiously graven band 
Of clouded gold — did ever pace the sand 

On the long, windy shore, 
And listen for old voices that drift 
Through the wide open heaven from far 

Planet and star; 
For secrets of the tides that stir and lift 

Ocean and world and soul: 

Or haply where the fluent combers roll, 
Did hearken for divine 
Answers to hoary tangled doubts and curst 
Riddles, in the reiterated hurst 

And thunder of the solemn frenzied brine. 

Ill 

Strange, that with amiable fields and wide 
Land-locked seas of grain, 
And promise that the round of sun and rain 
Should never cease; 
With friendly hills, where flocks and clouds abide; 
And every flowered lane 
All white with multiform fair counsellings 
Of peace; — 
And the gray woods informed with whisperings 
Of that mysterious, immortal Breath 
That lingereth 

4i 



Around prophetic groves and vocal springs; — 
How strange that these Men valued most the things 
Of war and death! 

IV 

Unfathomable race! that toiled and built 
Year after year; that knew 
The slow rewards of industry and strength; 
And then at length 
With causeless anger and colossal guilt, 

Wantonly overthrew, — 
That bartered day for night, blood for dry bones, 
And gave 
The sap of life for false lures of the grave, — 
Mad tribes, that circled through the varied zones 

In many a sombre wave, 
Urged onward by unreasoning distress; 

And traveled every trail and highroad save 
The pathway to the house of Happiness. 



Were they but brutes of loftier fashioning ? 

Or outlawed angels, banished from their sphere 
And ever wandering 
Through the half dusk of Heaven's frontier ? 
— Yet neither is our vision true nor clear, 

Nor may we boast. 
Bent by the same large, overlording will, 

And by the same obscure impulsion stirred, 
All, from the humblest sparrow to the most 
High-plumed archangel of the host, 
Are still 
Imperfect echoes of the changeless Word. 

42 



ROSES OF IRAN 



THE KINVAD BRIDGE 

{Persian) 

At the end of the pam that all men tread, at the end 

of the road called Time, 
Where the land slopes off to the cliffs of death, and 

the dolorous vapors climb, 
Over the cloudy gulf of hell, and the chasm of dim 

despond, 
The Kinvad Bridge swings frail and far to the 

heavenly heights beyond. 

Nine javelins wide is the Kinvad Bridge when 
passeth a righteous soul; 

Royally ample and safe it leads to the distant shin- 
ing goal; 

But when others come to the cliffs of death — ah, 
yes, the bridge is there — 

But oh, what a narrow thread that spans the gray 
gorge of despair! 

A SONG OF THE PERSIAN POET 

Hafiz, poet of love and death in Iran, home of the 

rose, 
Stood in his garden of shadowy palms at the clear 

day's close. 
Silent, he gazed at the towers and domes of Shiraz 

white and high, 
Looming above the fronded trees and into the dusky 

sky. 

45 



Stealthily came through the east gate the conjuror 

Night from afar; 
Over the towers of Shiraz he hung a beautiful star. 
Suddenly through the twilight a passing cry was 

heard: 
Northward over the murky grove hurried a homing 

bird. 



Over the domes of the murmurous town she held 

her tireless flight 
Seemingly unto the star that hung in the hollow 

blue; and the sight 
Pierced the soul of Hafiz, poet of golden rhyme, 
So that he gave to the wind this song, that has 

crossed the desert of Time: 



"The bird of my heart is a sacred bird, whose nest 

is at Allah's throne; 
Caged in this body it sighs to be free, and to soar 

unto Heaven alone. 
If ever it flieth above the world, it findeth rest no 

more 
Till it sees the light of the crystal towers, and enters 

the palace door." 



4 6 



FLEURS DE LTS 



THE BALLAD OF CHARLES MARTEL 

Stands the old Austrasian castle white against the 

hills afar, 
Every spire and tapering turret pointing to some 

splendid star; 
On its battlements the moonlight breaks in many 

a silver bar. 

Tramp of horse, with jest and laughter, from the 

oaken drawbridge sounds; 
With his archers and companions, with his kingly 

hawk and hounds, 
Charles the Duke comes riding homeward from 

his feudal hunting-grounds. 

Clattering up the rocky roadway, rides with wild 

and breathless speed 
Straight to Charles's side a herald; there he checks 

his foaming steed. 
Silent now the merry courtiers, crowding near his 

words to heed. 

" Sire, the dreaded Moorish army presses on 

through Aquitaine; 
Eudo with his stout retainers strives to check their 

course in vain. 
All the south of France lies groaning 'neath the yoke 

of Moslem Spain!" 

As the Duke heard, looking upward at the tall gray 
towers, by chance 

49 



Bright the horned moon beyond them rose within 

his rapid glance; 
And he cried, " 'Tis right that ever, in the tranquil 

skies of France, 

" God's own crescent should be gleaming; but I 

swear by all that's high, 
While I live no other crescent shall be queen of 

yonder sky! 
France shall see, O paynim Calif, which is master, 

you or I!" 

Summer glided into autumn. Northward rolled 

the Moslem tide. 
Still the call to arms resounded; Christendom 

with hope and pride 
Heard the tramp of Charles's soldiers coming to 

their chieftain's side. 

Where the winding Loire rolls seaward with its song 

of quaint romance, 
There he met the Moslem army, there he staked 

the fate of France — 
Nay, the fate of Christian Europe — on a single 

battle's chance. 

Arab chief and Berber horseman mingled with the 

swarthy Moor, 
Sunburnt hordes from Libyan deserts — Sennar, 

Kordofan, Darfur — 
Stood the soldiers of the prophet on the rolling plain 

of Tours; 

Splendid with the spoils of conquest in a hundred 
battles won — 

50 



Gems from Gothic monasteries, silks in far 

Damascus spun; 
Golden crescents on their turbans glittered in the 



morning sun. 



Six long days of fighting followed. On the seventh 

day once more 
Clashed the hostile arms at sunrise; and the 

sudden battle-roar, 
Opened then the final struggle, deadlier far than 

e'er before. 

" Courage !" cried the Christian chieftain. " Let 
him die whose cheek shall pale! 

Right is ours, and God will help us — if we fight we 
cannot fail!" 

And the sturdy Frankish warriors hewed their way 
through Moslem mail. 

Lo! the Ameer Abd-er-Rahman lies among his 

thousands slain. 
Swift the last charge of the Moslems surges forward, 

and again 
Breaks, as on some granite headland hoarsely 

breaks the baffled main. 

On that day the Frankish chieftain dealt his battle- 
blows so well 

That, beneath his stroke unerring, Moslems by the 
hundred fell; 

And they called him ever after " Carl the Hammer" 
—Charles Martel. 

Darkness closed the scene of carnage: but through 
all that autumn night 

51 



Panic reigned among the conquered, and the morn- 
ing, calm and bright, 

Found the Moorish tents deserted, telling of their 
southward flight. 

And the shattered host retreated back to Spain, as 

o'er the seas 
Backward drift the cloudy legions broken by the 

rising breeze. 
Ne'er again a Moslem army crossed the frowning 

Pyrenees. 



THE LAST STAND AT HASTINGS 

All day the crimson tide of war has surged o'er 
Senla's plain; 

All day the Norman knights have charged the 
Saxon host in vain. 

The red sun sinking to the west lights up the en- 
chanted hill 

Where England's royal banner gleams in golden 
splendor still. 



Around that standard gather all who love their land 

and king: 
Defending crown and fireside, true hearts and brave 

they bring. 
Sturdy and loyal men are they — soldiers of stele 

and fire — 
Stout Saxon earls from Sussex, mighty Danes from 

Lincolnshire. 



52 



Once more the Norman duke himself, with large 

and lofty glance, 
Marshals against King Harold's flag the chivalry 

of France. 
Bright are their bucklers; loud and clear their 

thrilling bugles blow; 
The Chant of Roland on their lips, they ride to 

meet the foe. 

But he who fights for hearth and home fights with 

a giant's arm: 
Fruitless the charge, — the invading ranks roll back 

in wild alarm. 
The duke reins in his horse, and dark his brow 

with anger grows; — 
Down like the wind he rides to where the archers 

bend their bows. 
1 Ye fools and blunderers, " he cries, " why waste 

your darts in vain ? 
They pelt yon stubborn osier wall like harmless 

summer rain: 
Shoot upward!" — and he grasps a bow, and sends 

an arrow high: 
It curves, it falls within the walls a meteor from 

the sky. 
Dark as a cloud a thousand shafts mount heaven- 
ward, and then 
Pour down a hail of doom and death upon the Saxon 

men. 

The invading host, fierce as a wave that floods the 
ocean's marge, 

Sweeps upward; and, while loudest roar the thun- 
ders of the charge, 

53 



An arrow, swifter than the fires that 'round lone 

iEtna beat, 
Drops near the royal standard — and its message is 

defeat! 

That eye which made Hardrada quail when Norse 

ships lined the shore — 
That steadfast kingly orb shall light the battlefield 

no more! 
Pierced by the fatal shaft he falls, last of the Saxon 

kings; 
Yet like a clarion's note his voice above the tumult 

rings : 
" Fight on! yield never: not forget your holy battle 

cry! 
And if we may not conquer, yet we may like heroes 

die!" 

Stern are their strokes, these men of Kent, ^from 

whom the Viking fled; 
Their maces crash through Norman mail, their 

dauntless swords are red. 
Yet inch by inch and ell by ell the Norman vassals 

gain- 
Loud laugh the vultures in the sky to see the heaps 

of slain. 

So one by one the lithsmen fell where Harold's 

banner shone, — 
Now Vebba dies; now Leofwine; — and now Gurth 

fights alone. 
Alone, he braves the Norman host, his battle-axe 

in air; 
He builds a mound of Norman dead, and plants the 

standard there. 

54 



Thus ancient Odin might have stood when Sig- 

mund's foes he slew — 
Tall Odin, with his glittering eye and hood of cloudy 

blue. 
"Per la resplendar De," the duke in rage and 

wonder cries: 
" And can none take yon English flag ? then mine 

shall be the prize!" 
Forward he rides; and face to face those fearless 

warriors meet — 
The Norman duke — the Saxon earl, unconquered 

in defeat. 
Fierce is the conflict; but at length, brave to his 

latest breath, 
Exhausted by a hundred wounds, the Saxon sinks 

in death. 



Now, o'er that silent field the night comes from the 

purple east: 
Where once King Harold's banner stood is spread 

King William's feast. 



Call him " the Conquerer " if you will — grudge not 

his meed of praise; 
But there were greater heroes still in those old 

English days. 
Lost is their cause — but they shall live, while 

sounds the minstrel's song: 
Harold, the noble Saxon king, and Gurth, the 

brave and strong! 



55 



THE CHEVALIER 

(John B. Gordon, 1 83 1- 1904) 



Let the loud winter gale 
The sorrow of the multitude repeat, 
Timed by the slow tread often thousand feet 

North, south, east, west: 
And let the dark guns on the cloudy crest 

Cry "Chieftain, hail!" 

But let the kindly sun, 
That even now breaks through the widening rift 
Where the low, hueless vapors veer and shift, 

In pure gold write 
How he who clambered soon to Fame's far height 

Men's hearts had won. 

See how the magic mist 
That gathers o'er the flower-embattled place 
Where his loved form now resteth for a space 

Is luminous 
With scenes of strife, and mountains glorious 

By old suns kissed: 

Lo! the cloud-enchanted summits that flun^ back 

the tocsin s call 
In a medley of long echoes, rolling from the granite 

wall; — 
And the soul of Gordon whispered, " 'Tis a sound 

that well I know — 
Ere my life-dawn well I knew it, — calling, calling. 

I will go." 

S6 



Fierce and turbulent the spirits that from out the 

hills he led, — 
Forth they burst like some rude torrent swirling o'er 

its stormy bed . . . 
And the whole world still remembers how the blue 

lines melted when 
'Mid the bloody hail at Sharpsburg stood the 

dauntless Gordon's men. 

Open was the field as daylight — never fort nor 

fended mound — 
Only the wide sky, up-arching over the blank 

rolling ground; 
Blue to northward, dark batallions, like some bow 

with tight- drawn string — 
Blue to southward, the Potomac, fordless and un- 

pitying. 

Then the men of Gordon listened, and one trumpet 

voice they heard, 
With the ring of iron courage thrilling splendid in 

each word: 
!< Men, the general has told us we must be here till 

the sun 
Sinks behind the hazy thicket and the glorious day 

is won. 

' Will you do it?" and as one man, hoarse they 

made reply, " We will!" 
' Steady, then," he said, " and meet them with 

the flame that flames to kill. 
Wait until you see the eagles gleaming on their 

coats of blue; 
Fire, then, nor cease your firing, till you pierce them 
through and through." 

s 57 



Now like sullen waves uprolling on the leaden 

shingled shore. 
With a sinister deep murmur swelling to a vasty 

roar, 
Come the blue ranks nearer — nearer; suddenly the 

line of gray 
Speaks; and back the blue wave surges, melting 

in the awful spray. 

Once again the dread surf rages, mighty and malev- 
olent — 

Once again its force is broken, and it backward 
♦ flows, bespent. 

Four times is the charge repeated, full four times the 
blue ranks fail, 

As the beryl brine is broken on the high cliff's 
clanging mail. 

So they held their ground, those dauntless mountain 

men, while slowlier 
Sank the sun behind the thicket than the stars in 

Leo stir. 
Scarce more slowly, to their leader, watching that 

red reeling sun 
Moved the orb of Hebrew scripture o'er the skv 

at Ajalon. 

Bitter and more galling bitter grew the fire on 

Gordon's men: 
Still they stood; but five times wounded fell their 

fearless leader then — 
Blood from out his worn cap streaming, blood 

adown his sleeve of gray. 
Ah, 'twas dearlv bought, the splendor and the glorv 

of that day! 

58 



Gettysburg — and all the forces of the fathomless 

abyss, 
Giant fiend with fiend contending, while the red 

shells scream and hiss, — 
'Round the rocky hill disastrous, through the fires 

of Devil's Den, 
Ever where the fight is fiercest, plunges Gordon and 

his men. 

Spottsylvania — there is magic in that blood-en- 
graven name: 

Spottsylvania — aye, and Gordon, — on the palimp- 
sest of fame. 

'Twas the twelfth of May, and gorgeous were the 
woods with green and gold, 

When beneath the pines at sunrise swift the surge 
of battle rolled. 

Comes the dread and doubtful moment when the 

stalwart line of gray 
Wavers, and in even balance hangs the issue of the 

day. 
Sweeping to the Bloody Angle, swirls the sheeted 

leaden rain, 
Dark as when the cyclone's vortex gathers in the 

hurricane. 

Is it victory or ruin ? Suddenly the atmosphere 
Shatters with the crash of conflict; it is Gordon! 

* far and near 
All the misty woods are vibrant; even to the tarn's 

black marge 
Riot the mad muttered echoes as he breaks the 
Union charge! 

59 



Cedar Creek and Massanutten — fades the banner 

of the bars — 
But the matchless form of Gordon stands superb 

with hard-earned scars; 
Then the glamour of Fort Stedman; — Petersburg; — 

the scenes grow dim; 
Appomattox; sinks the red sun down beyond the 

world's far rim. 

He who now moveless lies 
Out 'neath the heavens' quiet vaulted dome 
Knew but three words : God, country, home — 

To these was true. 
The knightliest he was beneath the blue 

Of southern skies. 



THE CHATEAU GAILLARD 
I 

Where Northward widely curves the Seine 

Far into Normandy, 
Till, circling many a fruitful plain, 

West by southwest it flows again 

To find the luring sea; — 
Rise the white chalk-cliffs, tier on tier, 
White mirrored in the waters clear; 
The highest drops ten fathom sheer: 
And once there came — so runs the story — 
King Richard to this promontory, 
And there, upon its crowning scar 
He builded the Chateau Gaillard. 

60 



II 



Within twelve moons its high towers gleamed 

Fair fashioned to his will. 
Those towers impregnable he deemed: 
So huge its bastions that they seemed 

Part of the moveless hill. 
The King rode up from the landward side: 
" How beautiful thou art," he cried; 
Then Philip fierce its walls defied: 
" Though they were iron would I take it!" 
" Though butter, yet thou couldst not shake it!" 
Answered, in tones that echoed far, 
The lord of the Chateau Gaillard. 



Ill 



But soon — thus strange the thread of fate- 
Rode Richard to Chalus; 

Urged by gold — greed insatiate 

He thundered at the city's gate 
With never rest nor truce: 

Till one day, as the charge he led 

Swift from the port an arrow sped, 

And stained his glittering mail with red. 

Thus died the lion-hearted King, 

His slayer grandly pardoning; 

And one born under evil star 

Came to be master of Gaillard. 



61 



IV 



Craven he was and dark of soul — 

Tyrant and perjurer — 
Lackland, whose reign was England's dole: 
Few names upon her record roll 

So scorned and hated were. 
The bloody stones at old Rouen 
Cried out against him: Philip then 
Hurled northward fifty thousand men; 
Down swept they to the level grasses, 
They crossed the Seine, they stormed the passes, 
Besieging, by all craft of war, 
The stronghold of Chateau Gaillard. 



Fair were its walls, and firm as fair, 

Builded with matchless art. 
No vulnerable flaw was there; 
Brave was its garrison — but where 

Was he of lion heart ? 
Chill dust he lay, while all the might 
Of France beat 'round those towers white. 
The foe came swarming in one night — 
At dawn the castle fell; that day 
Fell half the English fiefs away. 
One dauntless king were better far 
Than many a Chateau Gaillard. 



62 



GOLDEN ARROWS 



LA DESIREE 

I know not if her eyes be brown or blue — 
Her hair as midnight or as sunlit gold: 
I know that she is lovely to behold, 

And that her glance is tender, kind, and true. 

Her house I have not found. Perchance it stands 
In yonder square; perchance amid the brown 
Grass of the prairie; or in some quaint town 

Whose towers overlook strange, foreign lands. 

Soon as I see her will the mystic note — 
Cadence that I have listened for so long — 
Be sounded; and a passionate sweet song 

From that glad hour through my soul will float. 

I yet shall find her. It perhaps may be 
To-morrow — or to-day — or on the slow 
Dim river of the years — but this I know: 

That I will wait for her, and she for me. 



OLD-FASHIONED FLOWERS 

'Twas an old-fashioned garden, bright 
With blooms of former days; 

W 7 ith asters and with four-o'clocks, 

Tall daffodils and hollyhocks, 
And rosemary sprays. 

We spoke the same tongue, she and I — 
(And I remember well) 

65 



Clear was the summer sun; and yet 
On mangold and violet 

The dusk of dreamland fell. 

Along the trim white walk, that led 
Through files of stately flowers, 
We passed the sun-dial, quaint and old, 
Whose forward-creeping shadow told 
How went the priceless hours. 

Under a large benignant elm 

That cast its kindly shade 
Even beyond the garden's edge, 
Together by the fragrant hedge 

This faithful vow we made: 

" Our love shall last, and shall remain — 

Unspoiled by Time or Fate — 
The same that now so purely burns, 
Till yonder shadow backward turns 
Upon the dial plate." 

That was long since. She lives, but far 

From me as east from west. 
So be it. In the stars above 
'Tis written; but somehow I love 

Old-fashioned flowers the best. 



66 



WIND OF THE SOUTH 



Wind of the South, take this message, and bear it 
afar on thy pinions, 
Over the old red hills and the land of the long- 
leaf pine — 
Northward hundreds of leagues to the Snow King's 
wide dominions; 
Bear unto her that I love, O Wind, this message 
of mine. 



Whisper it into her ear when the errant birds, re- 
turning, 
Flutter about her feet and tales of the springtime 
tell; 
Breathe her a word for me while the sunset's beacon 
is burning, 
When, in the gathering dusk, she waits for the 
twilight bell. 



Tell her of Austral isles and the palm trees' magical 
glory; 
Tell her of roses fair and of seas where the white 
sails shine. 
Speak in what words you will, but simply tell my 
story; 
Bear unto her, O Wind of the South, this message 
of mine. 



6 7 






DEEP HONEST GRAY HER EYES 

Deep honest gray her eyes: so purple-deep 
That all the splendors of warm sea and sky, 

Of quiet planets at the verge of sleep — 

Of sun and cloud and star did in them lie. 

And he who looked into those lucid spheres 

Fain would have gazed therein a thousand years. 



THE END OF THE WORLD 

The end of the world will come, they say, 

Some day; 
The great blue globe will cease to revolve, 
And the things of earth will as dreams dissolve, 
Blank deep unto bottomless deep will call — 
And out of the heavens the white stars all 

Will fall. 



And so she must pass from my sight, they say, 

Some day; 
But until that day there are springtime skies, 
And until that hour in her dear eyes 
Happiness, home, and love I see. 
That hour the end of the world will be 

For me! 



68 



CANELF 



THE CASTLE OF CANELF 

I 

Beyond the seas where fancy takes the helm 
From Reason — somewhere on the misty shores- 

Of Wonder Land — that large, uncharted realm- 
Enthroned upon a royal cliff where roars 

The insurgent ocean 'round its base, the wide 

Dim castle of Canelf confronts the tide. 

II 

Mysterious and enchanted is each stone 

In every arch and wind-swept battlement; 
With melancholy ivy overgrown 
The venerable towers, gray and lone, 

Stand like magicians on their charms intent; 
And crowning all its wierd, majestic pile 

Are multitudes of spires and turrets high — 
A labryinth for the errant sunbeams — while 

Far overhead the great white clouds go by. 

Ill 

The massive gates, of iron-girded oak, 

Are in a deep, low-browed embrasure set; 
Built to resist the invader's sturdiest stroke 

The flanking towers and lofty parapet. 
Yet here and there along the creviced walls 

Some bright and kindly blossom lifts its head; 
And even where the fierce portcullis falls, 

The morning-glory clambers unafraid. 



7 1 



IV 

All day the rhythmic murmur of the waves, 
That plunge and whiten on the rocks below, 

Rises above the hollow-answering caves; 

And through the castle doors its runic staves 

Come drifting on the sea-breeze. In that flow 
Of music, many a strange, wild song is held, 

And magic notes from half-remembered eld. 

In every vaulted, loud-resounding hall 
That stretches, like a vista in a dream, 

To dim, delicious vastness — rise and fall 
The mad, melodious echoes that but seem 

Oracular responses, large and free — 

Prophetic voices of thoughts yet to be. 

VI 

Ah, could I reach that undiscovered land, 

Fair title to that broad estate I'd bring; 
I'd rule as baron o'er its castle grand 

By fief perpetual of my clement King: 
And mariners, cruising near those misty shores, 

I'd pilot thither; and no prince of old 
E'er dazzled honest guest with endless stores 

Of burning opal and engraven gold 
More lavishly than I would then display 
Thoughts new and strange as some far-distant day. 

VII 

Oh, I would reign as Homer reigns in Troy; 
Or Milton, in unbounded realms of cloud, 

72 



Commanding men and angels. Grief and Joy 
By turns, as unto Shakespeare's summons loud, 

Would heed my bidding. Often I would climb 
One of those tall, authoritative towers 

To catch more clearly in the wondrous rhyme 

Repeated by star-choruses sublime, 

A vague foretelling of the future hours : 

And there, perchance, out of the far Unknown 

Some whispered message might to me be blown; 

Through the rare atmosphere a word, a breath — 

Secrets of Space and Time, of Life and Death. 



THE WRESTLING OF THOR 

Whilst the gods yet walked with men, and men were 
yet heroes all, 

King Utgard sat with his nobles one day in his 
palace hall. 

So long it was that the daylight streamed in from 
the distant door 

As the light from the rifted east on the level valley 
floor; 

So high that the blue smoke hanging beneath the 
rafters seemed 

Huge clouds, and the shields on the walls like mar- 
vellous round moons gleamed. 

" Long life," said the king, " and wes hal, to our 
honored stranger guest: 

Refill the bejeweled horns; bring vintage and ven- 
ison the best! 

73 



I have heard, O Thor, of thy valor, and how 

through the North thou art 
Well known as the strongest of arm and revered as 

the stoutest of heart 
And now. ere the daylight dieth. full fain am I to 

behold 
Some teat ot thy boasted prowess, some perilous 

deed and bold. 
— Canst wrestle right sturdily : That is thv 

challenge ? Well, first I well send 
For my old nurse, white-haired El!i; with her thou 

ma vest contend." 
Now Thor, as you know, was the strongest of all 

that godlike race 
Whose dwelling was loftv Gladsheim. At this 

there surged to his face 
A tide o\ angry crimson; he turned to the muttering 

crowd 
W ith a bitter smile, and his laughter was mirth! 

long, and loud. 
For an aged crone had entered, becowled in an 

ashen hood; 
With tottering step she advanced, till in front of the 

king she stood. 
Tis a good jest, by mv hammer! a right good 

jest!" cried Thor. 
" Now brine me vour bee nd £ive him a 

:e of war!" 
But he faced contemptuous glances, and mocking 

wis and sneers; 
And the king leaned back on his throne, and said 

with a smile. " He fears." 
Then Thor cast off his mantle, and the house grew 

deadly still; 

74 



Not a word he spake, but his eyes were of him who 
hunts to kill. 

And he met the gray crone, and they closed; and 
it seemed that the prize was life: 

And the voiceless crowd pressed near, as they 
grappled in doubtful strife. 

For the grasp of the witch was as iron, and her 
breath was wintry cold, 

And the strong man's back was bent in her ever- 
tightening hold. 

Her eyes burned hateful steady, red-lit with en- 
chantment dire, — 

Blood-red they burned as the embers of a midnight 
funeral fire. 

And his brow became glistening wet, and violet- 
dark each vein, 

And the throb of his knotted muscles was like to 
the throb of pain. 

Then his right foot slipped yet more, ever backward 
and backward thrust, — 

And loud was the taunting roar as he sank to his 
knee in the dust. 



'Weep not," said the king, " thy defeat hath 
naught of reproach or shame: 

The bravest hath wrestled with Elli; the ending is 
ever the same, 

And only that man may boast who keepeth his foot- 
ing the longest; 

For the crone was Old Age, who at last overcometh 
even the strongest." 



75 



A LEGEND OF ERIC THE RED 

"Eric the Red, the first European to set foot on 
American soil." 

Long ago, in the shadowy ages 
Where history fades into legend, 
There lived on the coast of Norway two stalwart 
brothers, 'tis said — 
Taught by the song of the sea-winds, 
Trained unto peril and danger — 
One was called Olaf the Huntsman, the other was 
Eric the Red. 

One day as they played by the shore, 
In their youth and their courage exulting, 
The sharp eye of Olaf the Huntsman espied a 
strange bird overhead: 
Quick as thought was his lithe bow bended — 
Quicker yet came the twang of his bow-string — 
But alongside the arrow of Olaf went the arrow of 
Eric the Red. 

" It is mine!" cried Olaf in anger 
When Eric disputed his quarry, 
" For did I not see it before you, and am I not 
eldest?" he said. 
Not a word spake his brother in answer — 
Not a word, as he plucked out the arrow 
And held it above in triumph — 'twas the arrow of 
Eric the Red! 

And he lifted his prize to his shoulder 
And cried, " 'Tis a bird of good omen! 

7 6 



They come from the Ends of the Ocean — the far 
dim West, it is said. 
Some day I will sail to that west-land — 
Sail to that land undiscovered — 
And a new world, strange and enchanted, shall be 
conquered by Eric the Red!" 

And the old Norse chronicles tell us 
How at last, after years of adventure, 
He found the far region of Greenland, through 
voyages distant and dread: 
And still in the fjords of Norway, 
The white-haired, wandering minstrels 
Repeat to the listening children the saga of Eric the 
Red. 

THE SANCTUS BELL 

{A Christmas Legend) 

(According to a local tradition, the pool of 
Bomcre, in Shropshire, England, covers at present 
a spot once occupied by a flourishing village, which 
was destroyed, so the legend states, as a divine 
judgment on the people for their return to heathen 
worship.) 

Beside the stone cross in the market-place 

She stood with arm upraised: the crowd pressed 
near. 

The expectant murmurings grew still apace 

As her young voice rang out reedlike and clear: 

"We want no dismal prayers nor mumbling priest, 
Nor sombre creed and formidable rule. 

77 



If we must die, then while we live, at least 
Let us enjoy the springtide and the feast, 
The wassail and sweet anarchy of Yule." 

She was the daughter of the Ealdorman: 

Slender she was and fair; and as she spake 
Through all the crowd an ominous whisper ran — 

The weaving of a spell no prayers could break. 
For in her eyes the storm and sunshine dwelt — 

Dark as the equinox, and fathomless 
As that dawn-haunted deep within which melt 
The planets. No man looked at her but felt 

The sting and terror of her loveliness. 

"' Brethren, beware! The wrath of God abides 

On all them that forsake His holy word. 
Jealous His law, resistless as the tides 

His punishments. Fell rumors have I heard 
Of mystic rite and pagan sacrifice 

Wrought by this woman. Cast her forth, for she 
Is an enchantress; whoso heeds her dies. 
Beware those foam-white arms, those luring eyes, — 

Beware her strange gods and her sorcery !" 

So spake the priest, but they replied, " Not so: 

Our fathers worshipped these same gods, ere yet 
You bade us kneel to One who long ago 

Was crucified, and all the rest forget. 
Ours be strong gods, potent to strike and slay — 

Divinities of conquest and renown. 
No sour-visaged anchorites are they. 
— Back, dotard, to thy chapel, fast and pray; — 

Free-hearted Odin rules in Midmoor town!" 

78 



The harvest whitened; the abundant sheaves 

Bestowed their largess on the threshing-floor; 
And the wild, ruined multitudes of leaves 

Proclaimed the triumph of the frost once more. 
So the year's end drew nigh : five afternoons 

The sun sank strangely red; from the far sea 
The Southwest Wind came with his fierce platoons 
Of cloud; then over the blurred, sandy dunes 

The colorless long rain swept ceaselessly. 

With reeling folly and mad merriment 

The townsfolk gathered in their torch-lit hall. 
The horns flowed high; the heathen minstrels lent 

Their voices to the Yuletide festival. 
A few devout souls sought the chapel lone, 

Where the old, white-haired priest awaited them 
With flickering candles 'round the altar-stone: 
For on the same night of the year had shone 

The great star over ancient Bethlehem. 

" Brethren," he said, " the hour of reckoning 

Draws near; for in your perilous-brimmed lake 
Almighty vengeance hath been gathering 

These seven days. Soon will the huge flood 
break 
With swift submergence over the doomed town, — 

This hold of idols and unmentioned shame, 
Where oft in jest they called God's judgments down, 
Railed at the cross of Christ, mocked at His crown 

Of thorns, and made a by-word of His name. " 

" And must we perish, being innocent ? " 
The old priest mused in silence for a space, 

His head in holy meditation bent. 

At length he said, " It may be that His grace 

79 



Will save us by some kindly miracle. 

Yet somehow must the faithful share the woe 
Of the unfaithful: and the Scriptures tell 
How, when high Dagon's pillared temple fell, 

Just Samson perished in its overthrow." 

He paused; and no sound broke the stillness save 

The rain that on the steep roof crashed and ran. 
At last he turned, and in large voice and grave 

The intoning of the midnight mass began. 
And as they sang, there blended with that hymn 

A tumult as of some vast organ rolling. 
Then through the fenceless doorway stormed the 

grim 
Advance-guard; — yet from out the belfry dim 

The Sanctus Bell ceased not its solemn tolling. 

The flood surged through the aisle, and up the white 
Slope of the altar-steps, quenched the faint spark 

On the last candle: then blind, ruinous night; 
And naught persisted save the dateless dark. 

And still, around red inn-fires glowing clear, 
The country-folk along those hillsides tell 
How he who sails across the wind-swept mere 
At midnight upon Christmas Eve may hea r 
The steady tolling of the Sanctus Bell. 



THE LAST OF THE GIANTS 

Over the road by Kenmare, that winds its tortuous 

way 
To where the towers of Bandon rise golden out of 

the gray, 

80 



The bronzed campaigners ride through the sun- 
cleft mist of the dawn; 

And they speak of the valor of Cormac and the 
kings of the days that are gone. 

But who is he that cometh from over the purple 

height, 
Marvellous tall and mounted on a steed of radiant 

white ? 
Full huge is his burnished buckler and helm, and 

the length of his sword 
Is twice the length of the weapon borne by Erin's 

doughtiest lord. 

" I come from afar," said the stranger; " Pray tell 

me, by what road 
May I reach th? hall of the Fenian chiefs and the 

place of the king's abode ? 
For none save puny pygmies have I found 'twixt 

here and the sea. 
Has death claimed Finn the Fearless and all of his 

men but me ?" 

They replied,'' We have heard the legend in ancient 

song and rhyme 
Of the hero Finn the Fearless, who ruled in the 

olden time. 
But naught of him can we tell; for twice an hundred 

years 
Have passed since to rest they laid him along with 

the last of his peers. 

" Ah, yes, we are told by the poets that Finn had a 

son whose name, 
If well we remember, was Oisin — a chieftain and 

seer of fame; 

81 



But his eyes were cloudy with visions, and ever he 

wandered in quest 
Of the haunted blossom immortal, that grows in the 

Valley of Rest. 



"And one wild night, when the breakers raced in 

with unholy glee, 
He was lured by a fairy maiden to an island over 

the sea — 
The Isle of Youth they call it — the land of the 

luminous shore; 
And his friends grieved long, but Oisin was seen by 

the world no more. ,, 



" And I am he, " said the stranger, " who went to 

the magical isle; 
But at length I bethought me of Erin — and fain 

for a little while 
Would return to the land of my fathers — the high 

invincible halls 
Where the Red Branch heroes gather and feast till 

the sky lark calls. 



" But naught save puny pygmies have I found 

'twixt here and the sea; 
And of all the princes of Erin there are none who 

remain but me." 
So he turned his horse to the west, where the mere 

lay wan and wide 
And the road by degrees sloped down to the distant 

booming tide. 

82 



GIPSIES 

Homeless tribes of the moor and highway, 
Naught but the tent and the sky they know. 

None can tell of these roving races 

Whence they come or whither they go. 

We who dwell in the town and village 
Boast of our storied chronicles vast: 

Yet if we go but a few years backward, 
Lost is the chain in a barbarous past. 

When did the Storm-Goth fashion his hammer ? 

Where did the earliest Aryans dwell ? 
Whence do we come ? Does any one answer ? 

Whither we go, can any one tell ? 

Saxon and Celt and dark-eyed Tuscan, 

Mongol, Nubian, Malay — 
Out of the world's primeval twilight 

Each came forth in his own strange way. 

All of us are but Romany peoples — 

Vagrant strangers, wandering far 
Under the purple vault of the heavens, 

Horned moon and flickering star. 

THE ANGEL WITH THE FLAMING SWORD 

Beyond a soundless vista, darkly walled 
With cedar and with fragrant terebinth, — 
Against a twilight-haunted background, stands 
The angelic sentinel who keeps the way 
To the lost Garden of the Lord. The gloom 



83 



Of sorrowing boughs and sad inwoven vines 
Frames him with midnight, save that here and there 
The fronded screen behind him half reveals 
Far, dim-lit spaces, crossed and strangely shot 
With glimpses of immortal dawn. His hand 
Holds that great burning weapon whose long blade 
Is luminous with danger; and its light 
Shines upward on his bare breast, on his brow 
Stamped with the signet of Omnipotence, 
And even his majestic wings. His face 
Is blent of iron war and golden love: 
Pure as some solitary mountain lake; 
Strong as the viewless power that hurls the tides 
To landward; calm as that unchanging star 
'Round which the quiet constellations wheel. 

Comes, through the sober darkness, with the slow 

Step of one wearied with long journeying, 

A woman, who draws near that awful guard, 

Pauses, then timidly advances; then 

Crouches in terror as his bell-like voice 

Flings out the challenge. For a while she kneels 

Thus motionless; at length she lifts her head, 

From which the hood has fallen, and released 

Her hair in splendid deluge rippling down 

About her shoulders. And she cries, " O thou 

Who standest at the gate of Paradise, 

Clothed in white raiment, hear me, pity me! 

For I am burdened even unto death. 

(Oh, the fierce, toilsome days! — the hollow dusk, — 

The blank and aching nights!) And I would fain 

Spend one short hour in that blessed place 

I once called Home; and tread the old sweet paths, 

And hear the benediction of the leaves. " 

As she thus pleaded, and it seemed as if 

8+ 



Her very soul were struggling forth, at length 

His iron countenance relaxed, his face 

Bent downward with a look of tenderness, 

Like sudden sunlight on a scowling cliff. 

Yet he replied not; silently he gazed 

On the wan figure crouching in the path 

This side of Paradise. When she had made 

An end of her petition, still he spake 

No word, but lifted up his eyes to heaven; 

And all the woods were still, in reverence 

For that strong sinless prayer. At last he said: 

" Woman, there is no power given me 

To pass within these portals one who bears 

The smallest stain of disobedience. 

Jehovah hath decreed it, and His word 

Is changeless. Yet His ways are ever just: 

Even outside of Paradise the land 

Is fruitful to the touch of toil, and fair 

To the clear eye of righteousness. Therefore 

Weep not, but trust God's wisdom, and depart 

In peace." 

Yet she cried out once more, — " 'Tis not 
So much for mine own exile that I grieve, 
As that my children evermore should dwell 
In banishment. For it was promised me 
That I should be the mother of a race 
Like to the desert sands for multitude. " 

Again that holy stillness, while again 

With moving lips he looked beyond the stars. 

And as he prayed, a torrent of clear light 

Beat suddenly around them, so that even 

The burning sword grew dim, and far adown 

The erstwhile sombre cedared avenue 

Dazzled the splendors of white noon. With arm 

8 5 



Upraised, and pointing to the rifted heaven, 
The angel cried, " Behold the loving Word 
Which God will speak to men. " And Eve looked 

up 
And saw One as if risen from the dead : 

The print of nails was on his outstretched hands, — 

Yet was his face and raiment glorious 

As the high morning sun; and at his feet 

Thrones, and a myriad kingdoms. And she heard 

A voice like the surge of many seas, 

Crying, " The Prince of Righteousness shall come 

At last the tabernacle of the Lord 

Shall be with men; and He shall dwell with them; 

And God shall wipe away all tears. " And so, 

Listening, she was comforted; and when 

Slowly she lifted up her eyes, that soon 

Had closed against that radiance, and saw 

Only the dark trees, and the sentinel 

Guarding the moveless gates, yet she arose, 

And, strengthened by the vision, went her way 



86 






REVELATION 

Three times unto a wandering world God spake; 
At first through Moses, who from Sinai steep 
Said, " God is great; He rules the mighty deep, 

And guides the stars; He judgeth all who break 

His dread commandments." Then did David 
wake 
His harp of gold, and with melodious sweep 
Sang, * God is good, rewarding all who keep 

His righteous law." Yet still the world would 
make 

Complaint: " He is so great, we fear — so good, 
We are ashamed; our mortal senses fail." 

Then came the Christ: right royally He stood 
As priest and Saviour, rending wide the veil; 

And, in a voice like music to our ears, 

Said, " God is Love; He wipes away all tears!" 



87 



JEOLIAN 



MERIDIES 

Through the still groves in the valley walks the 
quiet-voiced Noon, 

Blue-eyed, smiling, yellow-mantled, — chanting low 
a slumberous tune 

Half of wild bee and of locust, half of crooning winds 
and streams; — 

Elder brother to the twilight, — almoner of cloud- 
wrought dreams. 



THE SOUTH WIND COMETH 

Sweet is the power the South Wind holds, 

With his pinions of sunshine and garments of air 

That scatter from out of their weightless folds 
The scent of magnolias, faint and rare. 

When the south wind cometh the daisies awake 
And nod at the great white clouds as they pass; 

And out on the meadow the breeze-blown lake 
Can scarce be told from the rippling grass 

He sets the ripening corn atune, 

Then sweeps it with his magic bow; 

And listen! An enchanted rune — 
A whispered lullaby, soft and low, 

That tells of shimmering jungles deep, 
Of warm blue skies and forests calm — 

Of plains where buried cities sleep, 
Of lemon-grass and ancient palm. 

91 



This is the South Wind. Mark him well — 

This soft-spoken, blue-eyed enchanter, who 
seems 
To weave round the senses a delicate spell 

Of bright, fragile clouds and of midsummer 
dreams. 

THE EQUINOX 

Low hangs the sky on tropic shores, the dark drops 
down at noon; 

And on the sandy beach the surf rolls in with 
troubled tune: 

For fast along the curving coast that fronts the 
southern main 

Comes the dim cyclone's rebel host and the insur- 
gent rain. 

The ships ask, " Who are ye ?" 
The tumult and complaining of the sea 

Is echoed by the ancient shelving rocks. 
Whereat the winds make melancholy answer: 

We are the legions of the House of Cancer — 

The winds of the Autumnal Equinox!" 

Their breath is pungent with the spice of cloudy 

Caribbees, 
Their wailing minor chords are heard along the 

coral keys. 
They smite the coastwise villages; grim wrecks 

they blow from far: 
They strew the tragic beach for miles with broken 

beam and spar. 

92 



Northwtfrd they sweep, till all the towns from 

Largo to Cape Fear 
Whisper, "It is the summer's end, the turning of 
the year!" 
My soul asks, " Who are ye ? 
Who break the spell of summer time for me V* 

Awhile the storm her questioning but mocks. 
At length those winds make melancholy answer: 
We are the legions of the House of Cancer — 
The winds of thine Autumnal Equinox!" 

NIMBUS 

{North Georgia) 

All through the slumb'rous afternoon the deft 
Cloud builders of the west, beyond a weird 

Sky-wall, involved with a many winding cleft, 
Their huge white domes have reared. 

The whole mid-heaven blends in one burning white 
Like a vast hollow sun : the faint Wind sleeps. 

When lo! across the world with noiseless flight 
The first great shadow sweeps. 

Now, rising midway betwixt north and west 

Above strange leagues of sudden dusk, the wide 

Black Nimbus, with its turbulent gray crest, 
Hangs like a moonless tide. 

Before it flies the gale with cool, wet wing : 

From foothills of the far Blue Ridge it comes. 

Already may be heard the muttering 
Of its dull, stormy drums. 

Flash after flash the long, keen lightnings rive 
Its leaden walls; the torn trees bend with pain. 

And now at last the windy rush and drive 
Of the fierce tangled rain. 

93 



MIDWINTER IN GEORGIA 
I 

The wind has wheeled from north to east, where 

fringed with stormy gray 
Another night comes rolling in to overtake the day. 
Now is it rain or dust I see that dims the sky-wall 

so ? 
Or smoke, or hail ? or can it be the vanguard of 

the snow ? 



II 



Last winter not a flake we had; the woods were 
dismal brown 

From red October until March: either the sun 
looked down 

Lukewarm and mournful, or beyond the sober- 
crusted plain, 

And over the unfrozen pond careered the mocking 
rain. 



Ill 



So far the churlish year has bought no ermine of 

large cost; 
And he has clothed the world in naught but common 

flimsy frost. 
Ah, could the magic white once more conceal our 

cheerless clay, 
The countryside six counties o'er would have high 

holiday! 

94 



IV 

The children would escape from school, and young 
and old would fare 

To mingle in the gleeful strife around the court- 
house square. 

Why should it make the whole sweet town go mad ? 
I do not know. 

Look! whirling, drifting, sifting down, here comes 
the splendid snow! 

THE HOMELESS MEN 

(Jacksonville, May 4, 1901) 

From the mouth of the pitiless, yawning sky 

The scarlet meteors fall. 
Swift the screaming tide of the fire draws nigh, 
And its roar is mixed with the maniac's cry 

And crash of roof and wall. 

Labor of years and toil and tears — and all to be 

utterly gone in an hour! 
Despair and death in the dragon's breath, and none 

but the homeless know his power. 

You build your house in the Town of the World, 

And its towers and domes are fair. 
Full bright are the gonfalons unfurled, 
And you think, as you enter the gates empearled, 

To dwell in happiness there. 

Labor of years and toil and tears — and all in the 

moment of death goes down: 
God pity then the homeless men who have built 

in a doomed and ruined town! 

95 



V 



ATLANTIS 



THE ROUND OAK 

Clear against the clouds in the dawn-light olden — 
Primal hour of childhood, magic time for me — 

Wonderful and wide with his leaves brown and 
golden, 
Fast friend and true stands a round oak tree. 

Oft have I watched while above the branches 
drifted 
Nebulous large galleys, white-sailed against the 
blue. 
Oft have I marked how between the leafage rifted, 
Silent, strange, and beautiful, the dreams came 
through. 

Fast friend of eld, though sad Time may us dis- 
sever, 
Strong as thou art strong would I have my soul 
to be: 
Shapely, broad, sincere, kind, and grave; contented 
ever 
Underneath the stars, like the round oak tree. 

THE OLD PICTURE BOOK 

Yesterday, when from the corners of a quiet attic 

room 
Crept the captains of the twilight, marshaling their 

hosts of gloom, 
I discovered a quaint volume, stored away long 

since amid 
Worthless, half-remembered relics: from beneath 

its patterned lid 

99 
LC 



Ancient, immemorial fancies issued forth in fairy 

streams. 
'Twas the picture book I played with in the days 

when days were dreams. 

Oh, the quiant old picture book! 

In a dusty chest I found it. 
Through it pass in pageant slow 
Knights and ladies to and fro; 
For some wizard, long ago 

Wove a magic spell around it. 

It was still a book enchanted, with its black text, 
large and bold, 

And its gorgeous colored pictures set in borderings 
of gold. 

I beheld the same white castles, and the goblin- 
haunted springs — 

All the dragons, dwarfs, magicians, giants, leg- 
endary kings; 

All the intricate initials that I loved to solve and 
trace: — 

And I hailed each line and letter as a dear, familiar 
face. 

As I turned its glowing pages, came a jinn of misty 

blue, 
Caught me like a whirlwind, bore me backward 

the long vistas through; — 
Backward through the halls forbidden, treading 

not the year-marked floors — 
Cast a sleep upon Time's warders, passed the closely 

guarded doors. 

100 



And we stept forth in those regions where forgotten 

flowers had birth, 
And the populous dim heavens touched the rounded 

hills of earth. 
Over purple fields I wandered, past low lakes and 

reedy fens; 
Through the formidable forest and the fearsome, 

tangled glens; — 
Past enchanted towers, and gardens with broad 

rivers crisping by — 
Tall cliffs dropping off to nowhere, mountains 

blending with the sky. 

Best do I remember climbing up a toilsome steep 
road 

At my side |a princely stranger in his glittering 
armor strode. 

Perilous with sudden loopings, in and out the road- 
way wound 

Up to the sharp, tawny summit of the topmost 
ridge, where frowned 

Some magician's castle, circle by huge bulwarks of 
defence, 

With the yellow sunset flaming out behind the 
battlements. 

Now at last we reached the scowling entrance, and 
the black barred gate, 

Flanked by terrible bronze griffins, looking out with 
hideous hate. 

Then the prince canght up the trumpet, blew a 
blast so shrill and clear 

That the wine-dark downs made answer from be- 
yond the silvered mere. 

Fades the vision: but I somehow felt the salt wind 
of the deep — 

IOI 



Saw the high moon sailing, sailing, through the 
soundless tides of sleep. 

Oh, the quaint old picture book! 

(See, the mystic shadows falling!) 
In the vanished orchard lane 
Milk-white blossoms bloom again: 
On the western porch the rain; — 

On the air lost voices calling. 



NEVERMORELAND 

Now the moon-white surf breaks slowly, and the 
distant-shouldered waves 

Melt in the long tide, returning to its undiscovered 
caves. 

Comes the land breeze, warm and listless, dropping 
from the hills behind, 

And the Dream Ship weighs its anchor and sails 
out across the wind: 

Out beyond the capes low-lying, and the purple- 
pointed foreland, 

Past the silver brim of ocean to the cliffs of Never- 
moreland. 



THE PHANTOM WORDS 

Dawns an unholy day. Like sombre birds, 
Careering ceaselessly across the sky, 
Under the iron-tinted heavens fly 
The phantom words. 



102 



Out of the Past they come, a sullen brood, — 
Plumed with gray sorrow, panoplied with pain, 
Sinister, hopeless, like the drops of rain 
For multitude. 



They linger where the twilight glooms and grieves. 
They drift malevolent athwart the black 
Gulf of the equinox, and the red wrack 
Of autumn leaves. 



Ah, I would snare them, slay them; or below 
The feet of Atlas I would sink and bind 
Those words I gave to the resurgent wind 
So long ago! 



ILLUSION 

* Beware \" cried Age: " yon luring flowery way 

Let not thy young feet press. 
So once to me its false fair colors glowed. 
'Tis all enchantment; farther out the road 

Winds through a wilderness." 



Unheeding Youth passed on: magician Love 

Looked down with a rare smile. 
To him then Age cried out in tones of pain, 
" Have pity! and deceive me once again, 
Just for a little while !" 

103 



BEACH-GRASSES 

They fringe the summits of the barren dunes. 

And the wide spaces of wave-printed sand; 
Despite the floodtide of a thousand moons 

They hold the border-marches of the land. 

Mortal, they wither: but the blighting year 
Holds promise of green myriads yet to be. 

And all the day and all night long they hear. 
The wordless whisper of the immortal sea. 

OCEAN AND TIME 

I watched the ceaseless warfare of the waves 

The stubborn shore besieging; proud and vast 

It seemed eternal — yet the great roaring caves 
Showed how that tireless assault had cast 
The shoreline slowly backward through the past. 
" And thus," I said, " the great destroyer, Time, 
Assails the universe; and he at last 

Shall conquer, 'till o'er every race and clime 

Rolls a sad sea of ruin, boundless and sublime. " 

Then far among the ancient hills I went, 

And found that the huge sandstone ridges each 
Were debris of some vanished continent, 

Washed from the shore, strewn o'er the sea's 

broad reach, 
And then uplifted. " This," I said, " doth teach 
How Time and Ocean gather, as of yore, 

From many a crumbling cliff and wave-worn 
beach, 
Material for rebuilding evermore 
Coastlines, continents, mountains, grander than 
before. " 

104 



THE MASTER'S FACE 

No pictured likeness of my Lord have I; 
He carved no record of his ministry 

On wood and stone. 
He left no sculptured tomb nor parchment dim, 
But trusted, for all memory of Him, 

Men's hearts alone. 

Sometimes I long to see him as of old 
Judea saw, and in my gaze to hold 

His face enshrined. 
Often amid the world's tumultuous strife, 
Some slight memorial of His earthly life 

I long to find. 

Who sees the face sees but in part; who reads 
The spirit which it hides sees all; he needs 

No more. Thy grace — 
Thy life in my life. Lord, give Thou to me; 
And then, in truth, I may forever see 

My Master's face! 



AU DELA 

Now what is abroad in the garden ? 

The wind with the moon has gone down- 
Died out in the west, 'mid the steeples 

And towers of the whispering town, 
The whispering wakeful city, 

That drowsily stirs and sighs 
And blinks till the gray dawn covers 

Its thousand eyes. 

105 



Now what is abroad in the garden — 

That garden, colorless, cold, 
With its wall and its dusky dial, 

Its odor of leafy mould ? 
No form have I glimpsed thro' the hedges, 

No sound have I heard at the gate: 
Yet surely 'tis more than my fancy 

That wanders so late. 

They are not the wraiths of the living, 

They are not the ghosts of the dead; 
The wall is unmarked by a shadow, 

The turf is unspoiled by their tread: 
Intangible, formless, and silent, 

They haunt the low ebb of the hours — 
Half bottomless pain, and half perfume 

Of smothering flowers. 

Back, back! they do come but to mock me; 

From the graves of my soul they arise: 
As if a lost folly had features, 

Or an ancient sorrow had eyes. 
And they murmur, " Behold thy begotten. 

Loved, hated, and lost long ago! 
Didst think we would lie thus forgotten 

Forever ? Not so. " 

Yet once I acclaimed them with gladness, 

And heartily hailed them in turn 
As my Princes of Pride, who would kindle 

New ageless passions, to burn 
With a sweet red flame on mine altar — 

The altar that many upraise; 
It is grounded in blindness, and builded 

Of ignorant days. . . . 

1 06 



Ere long the warm East will discover 

Her vast old magic again; 
And bring to your city another 

Blank round of unwisdom and pain. 
For the merchant will go to his ledger, 

The workman will shoulder his tools, 
And the quack and the lawyer will gather 

Their portion of fools. 

The poor will rise first: a procession 

Fast filing out through the gray. 
Some few find delight in their labor, 

The multitude works for the pay. 
The Pay! 'Tis the word universal, 

The deathless, omnipotent word; 
It sways and it conquers wherever 

Our language is heard. 

The Pay! Whether banker or blacksmith, 

Carpenter, newsboy, clerk, 
Or shopgirl or blossom of fashion, 

'Tis but for the Pay that they work. 
One toils for gold, one for silver, 

And one for a pittance of brass; 
And one for a beggarly conquest 

Of tinsel and glass; 

And one — ah, shame! — for a spatter 

Of type on a twopenny page; 
But few for the joy of the doing — 

The glorious maximum wage. 
So they delve for a handful of pebbles — 

Cold pebbles briny with tears; 
And they murmur, "Ah, we shall be happy 

In two or three years." 

107 



Well, they tread the same paths I have trodden. 

They seek the same ends I have sought; — 
Shall I blame them ? Should folly judge folly ? 

Is sin worse in deed than in thought ? 
But I kenned, at the sheer brink of being; 

A vision, a rapture, a smile; 
And I knew that somewhere under heaven 

Was something worth while : 

And I craved it from twilight to twilight — 

I sought it on land and on sea; 
And I said, "In or woodland or ocean 

Abideth this treasure for me. " 
Does it lurk in the throat of the lily ? 

Does it hide in the heart of the rose ? 

Does it dwell where the tide, outward turning, 

Untraceably goes ? 
< 
' Keen delights have I tasted, but never 

The vintage of pleasure supreme. 
As I plucked the ripe cluster called Knowledge 

It withered like grapes in a dream; 
And those other, those flame-colored berries 

Exhaled an aroma divine. 
But, crushed ere the morning, thev yielded 

A poisonous wine. " 

Nor yet have I found it; and weary 

Am I of long searching in vain; — 
But at last, in the cool of endeavor. 

This much hath my struggle made plain; 
That somewhere, betwixt that fair vineyard 

Walled 'round with old fencings of lies. 
And the low, gorgeous margins of Eros 

Where manhood dies, 

1 08 



Runs a clean white path, like a bowstring 

Straight stretched through the world; (but few 
Can discover this highroad enchanted, 

Or, finding, can follow it true) 
At the end, like a star in the purple, 

A gateway of crystal and fire. 
And beyond is the Tree, with its fruitage 

Of heart's desire. 

Comes a dream as of dawn, overflushing 

The slumbrous brow of the World; 
And slow from yon factory chimney 

The workday flag in unfurled. 
Now what is abroad in the garden ? — 

What legions of imageless dread ? 
They are not the wraiths of the living, 

Nor ghosts of the dead: 

But shapes of old blindness, that linger 

To mock the blue host of the light. 
It is dawn: yet they still dim my vision, 

They blot the straight road from my sight. 

King! take me now in Thy mercy — 
Thy love or Thine infinite wrath ! 

Lo! the sun, the illumining Spirit: 
Behold, now, the Path! 

1 am warned that the dangers are many, 

The snares that would baffle and lure; 
And I ken that those gates open never 

Save only to hands that are pure: 
But I follow with thirst and with hunger — 

With thirst for the fruit of that tree 
Whereby face to face Him who knoweth 

I, knowing, may see. 

109 



Well I mind me of Nebo's high secret — 
The Lawgiver's vision and shroud; 

Nor crave I in this life a sudden 
Wide rift in the merciful cloud: 

For the wound of that joy would be mortal, 
And the sting of that bliss would slay. 

Yet for such bliss and joy, O my Father, 

« I venture to pray! 



no 



Ir = : : -"e: .: -; -f 5::- ■ ~:e : ::e;s 
'.t.--£ : -: a:": '.'£:-r-s .- 2« :e 

PreservationTechnologies 

- : : : ■ - 

--- —--■■■ 



JU1U24 UJOT 



